The Mountain of Ice and Fire

“Seven hells!” King Robert roared. “Someone stop him!”

But the supervising officials didn’t hear; they were still in shock!

Such a brutal melee was unheard of!

The Mountain had been consumed by his bloodlust, attacking mercilessly and aiming for the kill.

He strode over the 'standing' corpses, picked up his great black iron hammer, and held it in his hand. No opponents remained near him. Swordsmen, knife-fighters, spearmen, shield bearers, and mace wielders all steered clear. Three men retreated directly to the edge of the circle, ready to leap out at any moment to save their lives.

Everyone was terrified!

No one had the will to fight anymore.

The Mountain turned to see Julie getting up from the ground, pulling a short sword from the throat of a man lying on the ground.

Several men who had been cut in the legs by Polliver’s sword and shield were being mercilessly finished off by Julie.

This was a serious violation; she was going straight for the kill!

Such a young girl, so ruthless and merciless in her killing, sent a chill through everyone’s hearts.

Polliver was using his sword and shield to cut off a man’s hand. It seemed his collection of artifacts would soon have another piece. Sword and shield were proving very effective for cutting off body parts.

Lothor was helping Zelli to her feet. Zelli looked lifeless; her armor was hacked to pieces, and blood stained her back. Sweet Raff and the Tickler defended with sword and shield, with a few others watching warily nearby.

Renard, lying on the ground, gasped for air, as if waking from a nightmare. His helmet was dented, suggesting he had taken a heavy blow to the head. This was very dangerous; if it was a closed helmet, the space for it to dent was limited. If the dent was too great, it would press against the head. In the worst case, it would crush the head, making it impossible to remove the helmet.

The Mountain said, “Renard, are you dead?”

“…I’m… alright… Ser Gregor…”

“Can you get up on your own?”

“…I’ll lie here a while…” Renard said.

Zelli was lying on top of him, a mountain of armored flesh, ultimately causing him to suffocate and pass out. Compared to the damage inflicted by his opponents, Zelli nearly killed Renard.

A spear was sticking in Renard’s calf, but it hadn’t pierced through; the calf armor had effectively blocked the spear’s point.

Chiswyck stood up, his shoulders, helmet, and lower back all bearing shocking sword and knife marks. His excellent armor had protected his life well, but it was no longer wearable. Red wounds were visible where the armor was broken.

Sweet Raff and the Tickler’s armor was intact. Neither of them was injured, but their sword and shields had many cuts and dents, showing that they had used their shields to the utmost. The edges of their shields were stained with blood—the blood of their opponents.

The stench of blood filled the training yard.

There were too many corpses, everywhere.

When the Mountain unleashed his might, throwing his iron hammer, killing one and scaring away two, then killing six more in quick succession, he shocked everyone and shattered the will to fight of those who had hoped to gain fame by attacking him. If they continued to fight, they might not even seriously injure the Mountain before he killed them.

Of the original fifty-plus combatants, only twelve remained standing within the circle.

The ground was covered with the dead and wounded.

The wounded who could walk on their own had already fled the circle, withdrawing from this brutal melee.

The Mountain roared, “Get out!”

The twelve remaining free riders, mercenary knights, noble’s attendants, and noble’s bastards within the circle looked grim, turned silently, and retreated one by one.

Although these men returned without glory, their performance was noted by the garrison officers and the great lords. Many nobles and the city watch, in need of talent, would recruit them into their ranks, offering them a 'respectable' job.

The Mountain walked to Lothor, removed Zelli’s helmet. Zelli’s face was covered in blood, making it hard to see her features clearly. Bernie was cursing loudly from outside the circle, using the dialect of his village, so no one understood what he was saying.

The Mountain tore off Zelli’s armor in a few swift movements. Her back was covered in sword and knife wounds, like whip marks. Her entire back was hacked to pieces.

The Mountain had only hoped to use the melee to train Zelli; rookies needed real combat to grow. He hadn’t expected these people to transfer their malice towards him onto those associated with him so mercilessly.

“Get her out of here. Have Jayne see to her.”

“Yes, sir!” Lothor’s voice was as cold and hard as black rock.

His broken-nosed face looked cruel.

The Mountain nodded. Lothor slipped his arms under Zelli’s armpits, hoisted her up, and helped her out of the circle. Jayne and Bernie, along with the Clegane men, immediately rushed over and quickly carried Zelli away, into the Clegane tent.

“Renard, if you’re not dead, get up on your own!” The Mountain roared.

He wasn’t in a good mood, despite his overwhelming victory. The animosity people felt towards him, from the king to the commoners, seemed so deeply ingrained!

The feeling of being everyone’s enemy wasn’t pleasant!

Renard was still a rookie; this real combat would at least temper his heart.

To change, to mature from a naive boy into a seasoned warrior, one must first mature the heart of a warrior, which requires combat experience.

Renard regained his breath, reached down, and pulled the spear from his calf. Pain flashed across his face. He picked up his shield and longsword, using the shield as a support to help him stand. He was pale and hopped out of the circle on one leg.

Inside the circle, the wounded and dead lay scattered across the ground.

Several dead men, their bodies pierced by spears, stood upright as if they were still alive.

Few wounded remained on the ground. When the Mountain instantly killed seven men, he intimidated all his opponents, giving Julie and Chiswyck time to finish off the wounded on the ground.

Chiswyck’s actions were one thing, but Julie’s merciless killing made everyone remember the little girl’s cruelty.

She was like a little demon from hell.

Countless people felt fear and dread towards her, wondering what kind of experiences and environment could have created such a ruthless and cruel girl.

The common people even called her the Little She-Devil, just as they had named Jaime Lannister 'The Kingslayer'.

Polliver, holding a bloody hand, walked out of the circle with Sweet Raff and the Tickler. Finally, only the Mountain remained in the entire circle.

The Mountain, holding his black iron spiked hammer, glared at the supervising officials on the sidelines, waiting for them to declare his victory.

The officials looked at King Robert. Should they declare the Mountain’s victory in this battle?

The Mountain had killed too many people, at least fifteen or more, which violated the customary rules of the team melee. In particular, his team’s finishing off of the fallen wounded had violated the laws of the land.

But the Mountain was a Lannister man, the queen was a Lannister, and the king’s father-in-law was a Lannister.

The entire arena fell silent as everyone watched this meaningful scene.

The Mountain realized that most people did not recognize the legitimacy and regularity of this melee, which gave them the power to deny him the championship because there were too many deaths and injuries. This was a situation that had never occurred in modern history.

The Mountain carried his warhammer to the edge of the circle, faced King Robert, and roared, “Your Majesty, who caused such death and injury today?”

Robert’s face flushed red. Although he was a complete bastard, a king who would never punch in for work, he was still a somewhat ashamed fat man. “Seven hells, Mountain, you won! Damn it, but this team melee has no honor, and I will never give you an award.”

“I don’t want any damn honor, I want gold dragons!” The Mountain said fiercely, glaring at the king.

“The prize money is there, Mountain, but you killed too many people. This tarnishes the honor of the competition.”

“Go to hell!” The Mountain cursed. He held his black iron spiked hammer, its spikes stained with blood. He strode out of the circle, passed in front of the supervising officials, and no one dared to stop him. He took out a well-packaged bag of gold coins from a brocade basket, glared around, and roared, “I am the Mountain, the well-deserved champion of the team melee! This is my well-deserved twenty thousand gold dragons!”

Clang, clang, clang!

The City Watch and Kingsguard drew their longswords, a dozen swords gleaming, pointing at the Mountain’s chest, back, abdomen, and ribs, all over his body.